Angel LaCanfora: Blog

Had a lovely time at the Art Walk last night. Thanks to my great host, Jessica, owner of Petals on 6th in Huntington Beach. My art looked right at home there, don't you think?

"Sunshine Spiral" .... 10"x13" at its widest points...

"Startled" 9"x11"

   A broiling Saturday morning, and I’d just finished up grouting a new mosaic. My local friends were either out-of-town or working and I didn’t feel like sitting around my apartment, staring at my Facebook wall all day. What to do? I scanned the OC/LA Weekly for events, all of which seemed to center around food/drink and hovering in the hundred degree heat. This was my dilemma; here it is the height of tourist season in southern California on a sweltering hot Saturday. Roads were sure to be jammed everywhere, tempers short. I didn’t want to go to the desert, where it was by this time (10am) already at asphalt-melting temps. I ruled out a coastal drive to Ventura or Santa Barbara (PCH on a summer Saturday? Fuhgeddaboutit!). Museums would be packed with families looking for a cheap, fun way to escape the heat. I was left with fleeing to a mountain-top. Besides, in the mountains, I’d find cooler temps at the higher elevations. I could drive to Big Bear, but knew the roads up would be clogged with day/weekend trippers. How about a mountain-top less travelled? One I had yet to visit? Idyllwild it would be.

   Figuring that the drive up the mountain would be the highlight, I took my time, savoring the vistas, pulling over when possible. I was blessed with very little traffic. A couple of hair-pinny curves took me by surprise, even though I was driving cautiously. Oh yeah, did I mention I’ve got a fear of heights? My heart shot up into my throat as I rounded these curves, curves that did not have any kind of barrier. One false slip of the foot and I'd have careened over. But the views were breath-taking; the sweeping expanse over-looking a valley buttressed by the cloud-topped San Gabriel mountains to the north.

   The village of Idyllwild was a lot like I’d pictured it be: small and kitschy, with hippy-elite, white-bred touches. I tried hard to keep my mind open, to withhold the shudder that naturally overtakes me when I see astroturf and multiple cutesy-wootsy log bear carvings in an otherwise beautiful landscape. I consoled myself by noting that at least there was no evidence of the musty Bavarian-doily motif you find in the neighboring village of Big Bear.

   The town was swarming with families poking around, lumbering and fanning themselves in the 85 degree heat. I popped into a coffeehouse for a break, ordered an iced latte and found the only seat available outside in the shade. Music was blasting from coffeehouse speakers overhead, competing with a live, astroturf-side performance by a solo-guitarist of New Agey bent. A flock of loud, smoking teens and young adults near me added to the cacophony. I marveled at the irony of my attempt to seek peace and tranquility on a mountain-top in tourist-soaked SoCal.

   I poked around the shops/galleries for a bit then decided I’d take a hike and see some scenery. Since it was excruciatingly hot and I’ve got a medical condition whose symptoms include chronic dehydration, I thought it best to do a short, easy hike. I settled on the Ernest Maxwell trail and moseyed over to Humber Park to find the trailhead. I parked, found a trailhead and started up. Immediately I noted the steep incline and after a dozen steps thought “this is the most ‘strenuous’ easy hike I’ve ever been on.” I made my way up, huffing with each step, pausing to snap photos of Mt San Jacinto, which loomed over me at nearly 11,000 feet.

    Suddenly I came upon two forest rangers. We all seemed surprised to see each other. 

   “Hello, do you have a permit?” said one.

   “Uh, no,” I stammered.

   “You need one to hike the Devil’s Slide trail.” 

   “Oh, I, uh... I didn’t know...”

   “Are you just here to take some pictures?”
   “Uh, yeah! That’s it...” 

   “Okay, well you can go through a little ways. But next time you’ll need a permit.”

   Thanking them profusely I resumed my hike. So much made sense now!

   Not wanting to take advantage of the rangers trust in me, I started back down after about 15 minutes. It was then that it occurred to me I’d neglected to hang my Adventure Pass up in my car. I figured the rangers were out in force today, so I scurried down as fast as I could while trying not to sprain an ankle. 

   Sure enough, when I emerged from the trail, I spotted a ranger with a clipboard heading away from my car. I called out to him, to explain the situation. I don’t wish to relive this unfortunate moment in full, but it was a scene rife with his condescending attitude and me biting my tongue. 

   I was ticked off at having been scolded by a pseudo-cop (thoughts running through my head at this point ran along the lines of ....” what, did you fail forest ranger school so you were relegated to parking lot detail and now you’re a bitter man with a thankless job you hate?” etc..). I was also soaked in sweat to my skin, feeling hot and picked on (I had the Adventure Pass on the seat of my car! I’d have shown it to the guy if he’d let me! Sheesh.), I felt it was time to blow this joint, meander down the mountain towards my lovely, beachy home.

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And now, an excerpt (paraphrased) from the book, “Fresh Air Fiend,” by one of my favorite writers, Paul Theroux. Some food for thought...

   “Some people say that the travel book is a kind of novel, that it has elements of fiction in  it...half the prosy animal of nonfiction and half the fabulous monster of fiction, and there it stands, snorting, and pawing the ground, challenging us to give it a name. There are, no doubt, books that fit this description: little trips that writers have worked up into epics and odysseys....you take a trip - a couple of months...not too dangerous - you write it up, making it fairly harrowing and mocking, and dramatizing yourself, because you’re the hero of this - what? Quest, perhaps, but full of liberties.

   When I read such a book and spot the fakery, the invention, the embroidery, I can read no further. Self-dramatization is inevitable in any travel book - most travelers, however dreary and plonkingly pedestrian, see themselves as heroic, solitary adventurers. And the odd thing is that the real heroes of travel seldom write about their journeys.”

I ain't no hero. Just a blogger! 

Before I proceed with my thoughts about this unique film, a few curmudgeonly grumbles about the cinema viewing experience. Now I’m not sure if pop culture has gotten more low-brow in the last year or if I’ve just gotten prissier. When I moved back to SoCal from Virginia last summer, I decided to eschew tv, partly out of frugality and partly to discourage myself from wasting time on junk food television (now I waste my time on the internet!) Also, I haven’t been to see any films in a theater in the last year that I can remember. I knew to expect at least a few previews before the film started. Instead, it was more like 52 previews of bombastic dreck, all crashes, explosions, shouting, screeching, scantily clad women in heat, men aiming guns. Only one preview did not offend my sensibilities, “The Descendants,” starring George Clooney. I will see that film.

So it was with great relief when “The Tree of Life” started, the bombast gone, all soft whispers. It’s true, it’s an unusual film. I enjoyed it and highly recommend it. I will say that it is not without its flaws. The first half of the film, in my opinion, was stronger; more surreal, better pacing. The second half went on too long for me (“yes, yes, I get it. The boys had a difficult relationship with their dad and it affected them emotionally.”) And frankly, I thought the ending was weak. I was enthralled by the “birth of the universe” sequence. Gorgeously rendered, all the way from the singularity to the Big Bang, to life on Earth’s initial stirrings from the primordial soup, to single-celled organisms evolving into gelatinous clouds of cells giving way to multicellular creatures, eventually evolving into dinosaurs. Even the dinosaurs demise 65 million years ago by the Gulf of Mexico asteroid crash is depicted here. As a gal who digs the science, I could have easily watched a whole film of just this sequence for the next couple hours. Alas, it had to go “human” on me. 

I counted four people who left the film early. I was prepared for that, waiting and watching for it, based on reviews I had read beforehand. The theater was packed and initially, you could hear the rustling of bags of chips and the crackle of popcorn between teeth. But as the film went on, I noticed suddenly, during one especially quiet scene, that you couldn’t hear a sound from the audience. Everyone was riveted. Not a shuffle or a cough; not a throat-clearing or popcorn-crackle. I can honestly say that’s the first time I’ve ever experienced a moment like that in a full movie theater. It moved me and seemed to lend the film weight, to know we were all absorbed together.That being said, I can totally get why some people would not like this film. It is not dialogue driven, but is beautiful to look at. It is slow, melancholic, gentle. There is little laughter or grinning here. It’s a meditation; it draws you inward. It’s like the cinematic equivalent of a Nick Drake album. I felt at times as though I was in a museum, looking at a Vermeer one moment, a Gainsborough portrait the next.

I’m giving it an 8 out of 10. It would have been a 10 had the childhood father/son stuff not dragged on so much and if the ending *SPOILER ALERT* wouldn’t have resembled a perfume commercial. 

All the actors did a great job, especially the boys. I enjoyed “The Tree of Life” for its thoughtfulness, gentleness, beautiful cinematography and lovely soundtrack. Would that more films like this were made!

It's a balmy summer evening in this courtyard by the boulevard. I whip out my memo pad to jot down some notes and immediately sense some confusion from passers-by: "but...that's not a Blackberry/Android/Iphone! What's that....a PEN??" 

I am approached by a squat middle-aged man clad all in beige: beige panama hat, beige polo shirt tucked into khaki slacks. A tiny, jittery white poodle rests in his arms. He talks at me loudly without making eye contact. His words have the manner of a rehearsed speech; “...and he does a great chihuahua impression!” He grabs the dog violently, yanking the fur back from its face, making his eyes bulge. Ha. Ha.

A ground skittering cockroach near my feet startles me. Stevie Nicks is warbling overhead. Sitting in a wrought iron chair beside my art, I glance up in time to see a Balloon Man: a slim young chap with knotted lime green and pink balloons twisted about his head. 

A car boom backfires on Harbor Boulevard just as the Metrolink sounds its belchy horn. A trio to the left of me peers into a shop window and whines, “it’s closed...” I can feel their pouty vibes emanating from them.

A woman hovers over my mosaics while attempting to work a wrapper off a gooey cupcake. I sit watching, keeping a parental eye on my art. Another victim of the free gooey cupcakes appears in my view, a little blonde boy, his hands coated in frosting. He is alone and thoughtfully, slowly, smearing said frosting on the side of a brass trash can. I’m so amused by what I’m seeing I don’t even stop him. Then comes along the owner of the store. She glances at the boy with raised eyebrows then at me, with a “can you BELIEVE this??” expression. I explode with laughter. The proprietress then sets about gently reprimanding the boy.

Now the Byrds, “Turn Turn Turn” is playing, making every cell in my body relaxed and giddy. I should have been a Baby Boomer. How dare my parents not give birth to me 15 years before they did.

I’m sleepy and want to wrap this up. But this is quite possibly my last Fullerton ArtWalk and this thought makes me wistful. I just might be moving to the high desert soon, where one can be an artist without the hassles of urbanity.  Where one’s dollars stretch further. 

I pop into my host shop. The air conditioning is welcoming. I overhear: ”...and he does a great chihuahua impression!”

No, this has nothing to do with Rebecca Black. It's time for the Fullerton ArtWalk next Friday evening. You can find me once again camped out in front of Carpe Diem Experience, off Commonwealth & Harbor Blvd, between 6 & 9pm. 

Now's your last chance to check out my art up at LaCaffia in Long Beach. It's coming down Thursday...

Meantime, here's my latest piece, something beachy for summer, "Aquatic Spiral." (Stay tuned to this channel to see my latest mosaic on the burner, tentatively titled, "Startled Roman." )

Check out this lovely video by the Prime Spot TV featuring footage from last week's ArtWalk & yours truly...

Upcoming art gigs:

July 1st, the Fullerton ArtWalk.  http://www.fullertonartwalk.com/

July 20th, the Huntington Beach ArtWalk.   http://www.hbdowntown.com/artwalk/information.html

July 21st, 3rd Thursday ArtWalk in Long Beach.  http://www.facebook.com/pages/3rd-Thursday-Art-Walk/185342274820850

And don't forget this evening is my art opening at LaCaffia from 5pm to 7pm. (see flyer in post below this one)... phew! busy busy....

Tomorrow evening will find me & my mosaics/suncatchers set up on the boardwalk of Shoreline Village ( www.shorelinevillage.com ) in Long Beach. Come down & say hi! I'll be there from 5pm til after dark. I'll also be back at the Carpe Diem Experience for the Fullerton ArtWalk ( http://fullertonartwalk.com/ ), Friday, July 1st. Meantime, you can drop into LaCaffia in downtown Long Beach during business hours to visit a crop of my mosaics adorning their walls (see front page of this site!). Speaking of which, me and the other artists presently showing at LaCaffia are planning an artist "meet & greet" on Thursday, June 23rd between 6 & 8pm.

Phew! Worky worky...

My latest mosaic, "Neon Green Dream, 14." (also in my Etsy shop: http://www.etsy.com/listing/75993445/neon-green-dream-abstract-mosaic )

Yesterday afternoon found me sitting around my apartment, guitar-strummin' and song hummin'. So I turned on the webcam and gave a little impromptu performance of my song "More Me Than Ever." Written in 2000 or thereabouts, there exists a couple different recorded versions, one solo and a revved-up, bluegrassy version featuring the band Desert Sage. Have a looksy!

1995, my semester abroad in Cambridge, England. Striding narrow Roman streets on my way to classes. The graceful weeping willows by the Cam River. Mechanical Bridge. The city of Isaac Newton, Professor Stephen Hawking, Syd Barrett, Monty Python, the Soft Boys. Watching Waterboy Mike Scott at the Corn Exchange, the sound system failing during "Bang on the Ear." The view from my classroom, overlooking the spires of King's College cathedral. My nervous and mousy Shakespeare professor with whom I quibbled about my writing (her: "It's too colloquial." Me: "It fits within the context of the narrative. I'm an American. This is how we talk!" Her giving me high marks on my paper after the perspective check. That or she just wanted me to go away!) 

Hey! Next week I'm exhibiting at the 3rd Thursday Art Walk at the lovely Shoreline Village in downtown Long Beach. You can find me on the boardwalk near the Harborside Pub, between 5pm & 9pm-ish. Mention you read about this event here at my blog & I'll give you a big fat discount off any pieces of my art (unless you're one of my stalkers, in which case, I'll give you a big fat restraining order!). Anyway...c'mon down! For directions & details: http://www.shorelinevillage.com/

If it seems like my output has slowed down lately it's because my output has slowed down lately.  I've been working on a large-ish abstract mosaic, that I think is extry special, so I'm going a tad slower than usual. But today I found my hands idle (the horror!) since I'm waiting on a shipment of glass. So to tide over the frenzied mobs amassed outside my apartment calling for "more glass art NOW!" here's a quickie stained-glass suncatcher I whipped up today. So there! All better now? 

Thanks to Sabrina & Armina of "Carpe Diem" for hosting me & my art last night at the Fullerton ArtWalk. I had a great time! I always feel like something of an art ambassador at these ArtWalks, which I guess would make me an artassador (wait, I don't think I like the sound of that!).

Shots from last night...

C'mon over to the downtown Fullerton ArtWalk tomorrow night where I'll be exhibiting from 6pm - 10pm! What with live music, a BBQ stand & over 30 businesses participating, there'll be a little something for everybody! Click the link for more info.... http://fullertonartwalk.com/

Rummaging 'round my apartment, I came across this old demo, "Termite Theater," from 2000. Recorded at Media Kitchen in Gardena, with Chris Jones on background vocals (yes, my ex-husband...) I both wrote this tune & handled guitar duties.  I had completely forgotten about this song til today. I rather like it...

http://www.asktunes.com/audio/01_Termite_hifi.mp3

I've got a challenge for you: If you're holding a grudge against someone, I challenge you to let go of it today and instead try to think of the good qualities of this person who has been the target of your resentment. Turn that grudge around and cherish that person. And I bet you'll find it a great relief...

Sunset Beach, California - evening of May 31st, 2011

It's now been a full year since my return to SoCal after living 6 years in Virginia. And sometimes I miss Charlottesville; the gentle sweetness of its people. How we looked forward to leaves changing hue. The unifying effect of the temperamental weather, how it bonded us (doesn't matter if you're wealthy or poor, you have to deal with the sticky humidity, same as everyone else). The Sunday ritual I'd developed, early morning caffeinated joy-riding on back-country roads. Lonely, scenic stretches all to myself at 6:30 or so a.m. Careening over hills, around landscape-dewy bends (sometimes snow-dusted) blasting great tunes, hollering along (especially,in those days, Television's "Marquee Moon" & the db's "Black & White" well I just don't think I enjoy you anymore ... good therapy for the newly divorced).  The history-in-yer-faceness of Virginia; turning a corner stumbling on a Civil War relic. The clouds with their ever-present shapeshifting. Stately tulip poplars that had seen Jefferson, speaking of whom, his Monticello in my backyard, a wonderful reminder of a fascinating man I admire. The mom & pop coffeehouses that dotted the town, each with its distinct vibe and character. I miss the way I could be downtown in mere minutes and stroll the Mall, peak into the galleries, some with my work on their walls, and slurp gelato while listening to buskers, inevitably running into someone I knew. All the great shows: David Byrne, the Flaming Lips at the Charlottesville Pavilion... Levon Helm at the Paramount.... Andy Friedman at the Gravity Lounge... the Blue Moon diner....Miler's...playing Rapunzel's on the outskirts of town, sweltering in the heat of the lights on their stage, which was flanked with my mosaics. Some things that will always stay with me: Revolutionary Soup and tornado warnings. Dogwood trees and socialists. Huss and Dalton guitars. Stink bugs and neighbors digging me out, post-snowstorm. Trying to like okra. My adorable hundred-year old house. Route 64 ... 250 .... 29. The Blue Ridge Parkway....making the hike to Humpback Rocks after years-long illness; tears of relief at the top. I made it. I was better. 

I pay tribute to you, Charlottesville. A beautiful town with lovely people. You cut me down but built me up again. I remain, your friend.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/angeldan/3518660874/

                         "Kind of Blue" 24"x4"

Saturday I set out to maneuver the clogged arteries that are the SoCal freeway system, my destination, Joshua Tree, CA. Anyone who has even a passing acquaintance of me has probably gleaned that I love nature. And Joshua Tree Nat’l Park is like Disneyland for nature enthusiasts. Each region of the park has a distinct feel, flavor and look. While I only recently personally discovered the place, I’m enchanted and smitten; hook-line-sinker.

Traveling for me, specifically road trips, is medicinal, spiritual, healing. I find that when I’m situated in one town for too long, say several months, my focus starts narrowing to a pathological degree and I start feeling uneasy, feel like climbing the walls (psychologists are presently reaching for their DSM-IV...). While I think the ability to narrow my focus makes me a good mosaic artist, fixating on wangling tiny pieces of glass into an interesting image, it is also a trait that can get out-of-hand. And when, last week, I found myself sitting in my living room, listlessly gazing at a piece of lint on the carpet only then to see the lint suddenly waddle off, I knew I was due for a trip. Plus, I wanted an opportunity to fine-hone my landscape photography skills. 

Almost immediately upon entering the park, I felt my muscles relaxing, my breathing slowing, growing deeper, my heart filling. The sight of the Joshua trees (not *really* trees but a variety of yucca plant) with their arms outstretched, welcoming me, filling me with a sense of homeyness (I fear I may be repeating myself from another earlier blog entry. But for the time being, we can consider any redundancy “consistency!” Semantics are fun!). And then there are the rocks. Oh, those rocks! Driving along the main road through the park, looming piles of golden rubble turn into solid, stacked boulders of monzogranite, essentially cooled volcanic magma that was extruded and revealed through millennia of weathering and uplift (please pardon the occasional lapses into geology-speak!).

This time around, I decided to explore a region of the park that I’d not yet been to, located on the eastern side, an area known as the Pinto Basin. Joshua Tree Nat’l Park is the confluence of two desert ecosystems, where the Mojave on the west meets the Colorado to its southeast.  And no more is this merging evident that in the eastern portion of the park. Once past the trailhead for Skull Rock ( an impressive igneous mass resembling a face), you start to descend lower into a more typical looking desert landscape. The Joshua trees start to fade away as you decline in elevation and drive into a vast, scrubby valley, pops of color provided by the yellow-blossomed creosote and tall, willowy Ocotillo.

I arrived at the cholla gardens and leapt from my car for a mosey and some photo-taking. On one side of the road, the gardens are cautiously fenced off, with trails meandering around them. On the other side of the road, the chollas seemed to be larger and in a wilder state. Enticed by the thicker, wilder side, that’s where I headed. I poked around, carefully, or so I thought, snapping pictures, delighted at the way the sunlight was playing through their needles. That’s when I brushed my left leg up against one of these beauties. Luckily I was wearing my rip-stop pants and I think they saved me from what could have been a very bad scenario. But the bunch of needles that did sneak through the fabric were razor sharp, startlingly sharp. On inspection, my calf was a bloody mess, and I was shocked that already, within seconds of being punctured, bruises had formed and my leg was swelling. So for the 1st time in all my solo travels I had to break out my trusty first aid kit and tend to my wounds. I dug out barbs, then gave my leg a good clean and dressed my wound. As someone who is famously allergic to everything (10 years of allergy shots from age 7 to 17, 4 shots weekly!) I was now worried that I’d have a bad reaction but my leg was feeling better after the tending to. 

I set off down the narrow valley highway, singing improvised lyrics about the immediate environs to an original melody. This helped, what with the long drive of nothingness and endless road, til I arrived at Cottonwood Springs visitor center. I had a quick consult with a forest ranger about my leg situation, her eyes bulging out in alarm when she saw my leg. She left me and rifled through a filing cabinet, eventually producing a list of hospitals in the vicinity, in the event my leg should swell further.  

I soldiered on to the Cottonwood Springs and made a valiant attempt at a look around, but I didn’t think a solo hike in the desert noon-day heat with an injured leg was a great idea, so I returned to Mitzi (that’s my car. “Mitzi” short for Mitsubishi Outlander), and headed back the way I’d came. 

My leg got better and I spent that evening and the next morning bounding around the park; hiking, photographing, sometimes just perching on a boulder and enjoying the silence. Pondering my love of nature, wondering if I shouldn’t become a forest ranger. Maybe a forest sitter? Forest walker? Forest appreciator? Forest celebrator? 

The cholla...if I seemed traumatized by the cholla that's because I am...

If you came in through the front door, then you already know that my work is now on display at LaCaffia in Long Beach. If you arrived via a bookmark or RSS feed then rest your weary index further & save yourself a click, but please, hurry on over to 555 East Ocean Blvd., in downtown Long Beach, while there's still time! I think the place is open for another hour, so go! What are you waiting for! 

In the unfortunate event you're reading this after closing time, then by all means, feast your eyes on some compelling images from the show over at my Facebook fan page:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mosaics-by-Angel-LaCanfora/361546493256

I'm sorry I made you work your index finger after all! 

Ciao,

Angel

I’m laying here on my couch, thinking about the Art Walk I just did tonight in Long Beach. I set up on the boardwalk in the marina at Shoreline Village, near the Harborside  Pub. The wind was fierce early on in the evening and I had to take my business cards off the tables, as they were flying hither and yon. I had my wooden wrack with suncatchers a’danglin’, and 2 tables where my mosaics were propped up with frame stands. After I finished setting up, I kicked back in my chair, propped my feet up on a box, and relaxed, enjoying the sunset view over the harbor. Music was piped through overhead speakers on the building across from me, something I would in most cases find annoying, but in this instance, whomever was selecting the songs, knew what they were doing. I blissed out to vintage Kinks (b-side stuff!), Van Morrison, blues. I watched as musicians strolled past me, on their way down to the other end of the boardwalk, to their own gig. While this was only my 2nd Art Walk at this locale, I realized that I was already feeling oddly territorial, like this spot of the boardwalk was mine with a capital M. Like I owned the place. 

People ambled by, slowing down to take in my art. At this time, I had my face buried in the latest National Geographic (most people in Bangladesh will never know solitude!!) and every now and then someone would call out a question. Here would come the best part; when I’d see someone in a state of wonder, having never seen a fine art mosaic up close and personal before. The average American knows mosaics as something that might adorn a subway wall, or a backsplash: a $3 candle holder from Target. Most people don’t think of mosaics as a sophisticated art form. But when they see my work, especially those mosaics comprised of smalti (“smalti: handmade artisanal glass imported from Italy, used for centuries in traditional mosaics, found throughout Europe in the finest cathedrals.”), they gaze in wonder. These folks realize that they’re seeing something new and different, and they look on, mesmerized, often petting the mosaics (to my frustration...it’s broken glass, people!). And the questions come at me rapid-fire: “how do you do this? How do you manage to cut the glass so small? Where do you get the glass?” And I realize that I’m witnessing someone experiencing something completely different; a new way of looking at mosaics. Everyone knows how paintings are done. Most people have dabbled with drawing. But the average person has not created a mosaic, especially one with smalti. And I love love LOVE the fact that I’m opening their eyes to a new art form, or at least an unfamiliar one. Some want to know how they can get into doing it and I happily, patiently explain. I realize that most people won’t follow through; life is full and complicated for all of us. But if one or two people are so excited, so enthralled by the prospect of making a fine art mosaic that they will take it up and develop it as a passion, a pursuit, well then, my life has been given some meaning. 

Making mosaic art can be addicting. It is meditative, contemplative. It takes patience; an ability to draw your focus to exacting detail. It can be maddening. One of the 1st mosaics I ever made, was the Pigeon Point Lighthouse mosaic. I got so frustrated with it that about 3/4’s of the way through I shelved it for several months. I was so pissed off with myself, thought I’d really botched it. But one day I decided to take it down and finish it, just for the hell of it. It has since become one of my most popular pieces and was sold!  I’m right now working on a very large mosaic that, like the lighthouse mosaic, I’d shelved indefinitely, totally annoyed with it, thinking I’d screwed up big time. I don’t know how this one will be received in the end. But the wonderful thing about art is it is subjective. Someone, somewhere, will probably love it.

Huntington Beach ArtWalk! Main Street, Downtown! Wednesday, April 19th! 6pm-9pm!! Me! You!! Art! Yeah!

Shoreline Village ArtWalk! Shoreline Drive, Long Beach! Thursday, April 20th! Me! You!! Art!! Yeah!

Moon Tree... Bluff Park, Long Beach, CA

Please don't sue, DA Pennebaker...

"Don't Look Back" 8"x6"

This morning, heading home on Highway 18 after a whirlwind trip to Big Bear Lake, I took the turn-off for Green Valley Lake. In all my dozens of trips up and down the mountain over the course of my life, I couldn’t recall ever taking this road before and thought it’d be nice to check it out on this beautiful day. A windy, meandery road took me past startling scenery, startling because it still bore the scars wrought from the Slide fire of 2007. Charred tree trunks, and silvery, bare limbs, a ghostly landscape, so diametrically opposed to what I’d just come from, the lush pine greenery of Big Bear Lake. At last I spied the tiny lake, an elaborate pond really, ringed with cabins and trees. A whole town tucked away inconspicuously that I hadn’t known existed before now. The houses, tightly packed together, were an architectural melange: a log cabin here, a ramshackle box there; a post-modern atop precarious boulders here, a large A-frame there. The streets were devoid of people/children/animals. The few businesses I could see were closed, this being the snowy off-season during mid-week. An ominous orange CalTrans sign by the road warned of mud/debris flows possible as a result of the fire damage.

I pulled up in front of the town’s only restaurant, and the only place open, intriguingly called simply, “Malt Shop.” Funky and 1950’s in flavor, it had a homey, friendly vibe and I was the only one here. I browsed the vintage tchotchke adorning the walls then moseyed up to the counter and stood perusing their menu.  A Hispanic man about my age came in, said a cheery hello, could he help me. He poured me a cup of coffee and I learned his story. He was the owner of this place, had lived in Green Valley 7 years. His house was one of those that had burned down several years ago and as he was also operating a cleaning service at the time, the fire wiped out the homes of his clients, thus ending his business. It was a tragic one-two punch. Apparently the area was so remote that firefighters had a tough time reaching the village and the fire was let to rage uncontrollably a good 24 hours before anyone could reach it. We chatted on, changing subjects to the impending storm. I asked if this was a particularly harsh winter and his response was, no, considering that last winter they’d had 16 feet of snow! Sixteen!!

You think you have problems and then you hear about how people live their lives. You don’t have to go to Japan or Libya to hear stories of natural disasters or hardship. They happen right in your own backyard. And yet he persevered, had come to now own the town’s only restaurant. You’ve got to admire such tenacity, especially in the face of a harsh and unforgiving rural environment. I was somber as I drove out of Green Valley Lake, thinking of the homes/businesses lost, the lives immutably altered. The silvery trees devoid of leaves now didn’t seem startling but rather like quiet memorials. Made me realize how fortunate I am to be living in the peaceful coastal town of Huntington Beach, my hometown.

The San Bernardino mountains

Yesterday I cobbled together a video for my song "Stacy, Eric, Jeff & Amy." I wrote this back in 2006, a very rough year, one where I struggled with illness. Recording songs in my basement in Arlington, Virginia helped to keep me sane. This was one of those kinds of songs where I woke up at 3am with it in my head, pretty much fully formed. The previous evening, I'd finished reading "The Ruins," a horror novel by Scott B. Smith. I'd idly picked up this book when I saw the word "archaeology" associated with it. Not one typically for the horror genre, it nevertheless rattled me & left enough of an indelible imprint to spawn a song. I subsequently contacted Scott, informing him that I'd written a song based on his book, please don't sue me. He responded with incredible enthusiasm, just totally tickled & honored by my tune.

The video features footage I shot recently around Huntington Beach & Santa Monica...